


Genius

by Bluebell_Flames



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Minor Violence, One Shot, Pre Hogwarts, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebell_Flames/pseuds/Bluebell_Flames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Riddle once lived a Muggle life, where he knew nothing of the Wizarding World, magic or love. Growing up in the Muggle world is difficult for any wizard, let alone one who would become He Who Must Not Be Named...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genius

**Author's Note:**

> Told from Tom Riddle's POV, this fic is set just before Dumbledore tells him he's a wizard. It's also slightly based on the poem "Education for Leisure" by Carol Ann Duffy. Unbeta-ed so all mistakes are my own. Cross-posted on ff.net and HPFF.com
> 
> Warning: This fic covers serious mental instability, planning of murder and minor violence which may be triggery to some. If you're particularly sensitive then don't read further!

Snap.

Goes your neck.

I wish.

Tree branches don't satisfy my need to destroy, cause pain. Walking down Dreary Street in Drearyville it is an ordinary day. I'm fed up of being ignored, abandoned and kicked to the ground, beaten black and blue and red.

It takes too much effort to breathe; too many colours suffocate my vision. Memories crowd and push their way forwards, faster and faster. I fall into a dark pit that leaves me shell-shocked, blank, empty I can't escape. Why? Why! It makes me mad: the abuse. I hate my dad.

Sometimes I steal things I am a genius, but no one realises. I take a guitar, reaching into the room, my gloved hands grab and snatch, it feels good, very good. Then I am running, an awful lot of running, until they give up on catching me, the genius. The treasure box, the whistle are in another place. Mine. For once I am useful.

It's cold, a fierce gut-piercing chill. Better off feeling dead than giving into the chill. A house, I enter, it's easy the door opens at my touch without the need for the keys. The urge comes, growing from the deep pit inside me. What will they miss most? The yo-yo. It's so small, fragile and glittering golden. It looks at me with wide eyes; quickly I plunge my hand into the draw and clasp the glittering thing, tightly. It uncoils frantically and I grasp it tighter, squeezing it until it lies very still in my grasp. Dead and useless. I thrust it into my pocket, swiftly leaving, not a trace behind.

I go outside. In front of me is the same house I stole a snowman from once before. He was giant, cold and strong. My hero. He was frozen stiff but magnificent, a tall, white mute. Weighed a ton though, I hugged him to my chest and carried him away but he broke into pieces and disappeared - like everyone wants me to do. The other children cried when he was gone, which was nice. They noticed me.

The snowman is gone, destroyed. I've changed the world, its world, the owner s world. I like that. It s nice to be in control, no care worker telling me to get down off the table or child screaming for me to stop hitting them. But they hit me first, they made me this way; it's not my fault I've been locked inside my own head and the cupboard of a room for all these years.

My life s been stolen so I'll steal yours. It's hard, life. I've been alone and lonely. They called it neglect. I call it evil. It's not fair, not my fault. I need to kill.

That cat who lived with the children and their snowman. He's followed me away from that house. Interested in me, but I see his fear then sense his begging. A rock leaves my hand. It strikes the bundle of fur again. It s more of a puddle now, slimy and very malleable. I feel the slippery meat in my hands, which is warm, but not cooked. It's such a good smell, for once not my own blood. Curiosity killed that cat.

Keep walking, it's warmer now and colours hurt less. I am alive today, excited even, as the cat has been in my control and played my games properly. It feels so good to walk with my head clearing slightly. The heavy black curtain that screens my sight is a bit lighter. My head aches still but my body feels empty of everything. I feel pleasure at sending the cat down, it is a different feeling but I like it. I don't feel many things, I do feel the cold sometimes and fists. Shapes look very sharp still. They look angry; perhaps they want to hurt me too. I don't like pain. I don't want it; it's pointless to feel it. It's there everyday in my hands, head and heart. Sometimes my eyes want to close for a long time. I can't remember when I last didn't hurt or when I started to hurt people back. The rain always stings me.

I hate the rain, and everything else, I'm sick of the world. There's no point to anything if people just die anyway. Wish they'd hurry up and get it over with. People deserve to be killed. Some people; like those kids at that school where everyone called me names and picked on me - which made me mad. The other kids wanted me dead too, teachers chucked me out of school; said fighting, clawing and hurting weren t suitable for the classroom. Nobody wanted me on their team at old school; they say that I'm a-gress-sive - just like that, as if I'm thick. But I am a genius, can't they see?

No they can't. No one sees my excellence like stealing those toys and the thing that was a cat. It was like a play, I was the hero but not one in a tragedy. I didn't die, I won. People say it's wrong to kill something, but people have killed me so we're even. I'm so bored I could eat myself, but biting skin hurts afterwards and people stare at me weirdly if my wrists are scarred, which is annoying. So my stomach eats itself, it does that often. Especially when I'm left on my own and the fridge is empty or when I get home and am locked out, left only to eat my stomach and the cold.

Yes that is my life; it is hard but not as hard as me. Today I am going to play God. He hasn't helped me at all so I shall make him notice me, by taking control of something. Anything. Today I am starting a new life where I have power. I am a genius.

It s three thirty, school's out, which was the best time of the day for me. But not now, not since I was forced to leave. People go past shouting and screeching words at me failure, freak . It makes me angry. The urge rises again and roars, ripping through my throat. I yell. But they just stare, or laugh which is worse. I tell them I killed a cat and I could kill them. But they have already left; I m not even worth their breath. I am not worthless. I can kill things that takes skill.

It's very cold now and grey. Only boredom stirs in the streets. Icy shards freeze my brain and I am lost in depressing scenes that were real once, some are from last week, such as the belt and that squashed fly against the window. I had power over that fly, it pleases me to see the blob of its existence smeared on the window; he never stood a chance against a genius. Chance - if I had half a chance I could be anything at all.

A superstar, who is a genius and also God. That is me now. Nobody can deny my talent, it is in my breath. When I speak, it is talent. I speak some more, talk to a man who is too cheery on this grey day. Tell him how amazing I am; tell the world of my deeds. They will be impressed. I am changing the world, changing people s lives with talent in my breath. The man cuts me off. Kills the line. That guy doesn't realise how great I am. He thinks he rules this world, has control over me. But I am God and can do anything!

I run, booting someone again and again. Breathless, gasping, they were too weak to run after me. He cries, says something, I don't care. I'm invincible, I can rule over all things. Power to me, the genius! I sprint on, smash a window. The sound of broken glass is electrifying. It spurs me on. Genius. I hear voices, shouting, I hate this. Their voices rise, the sound is painful. I leave in agony. Flickers of scenes cross my mind, mouths screaming in my face, the belt falling with a crack, sharp pain just about everywhere, tears. Wimp. I need to get away from everything, all these people and things.

They think I'm evil but they are the evil ones, not paying me any attention. I want to kill them, squash them like a fly on a window. I am fed up of being ignored.

A little girl is there, alone, she needs help like me. Instantly I grab her hand, pulls her along. I drag the little person to the park. She is screaming and my head can t take it much longer. Colours really hurt, red and black swarm round like ghosts beside me but I can t reach them, until I growl and then things clear. But the piercing shrill from that child is very painful.

Time to play God.

And stop her screaming.


End file.
